


Punching Mirrors

by PGT



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Simmons hates himself, gene is annoying and Simmons makes him stop talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 09:03:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11204787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PGT/pseuds/PGT
Summary: inspired by this post: http://zanezell155.tumblr.com/post/161837162659/so-season-15-ep10-reminded-me-of-season-4-ep15





	Punching Mirrors

Gene was a mirror. He talked like Simmons, with the same nasal voice. He walked with the same minute limp, gestured with the same spindly fingers.

It was like highschool again. Or basic. Or, anytime, really. It never changed, how much Simmons hated himself. He just forgot about it when the action came around.

Grif mocked him for punching mirrors. It had only happened once, on a particularly shitty day in Blood Gulch, but the joke lingered, and the temptation was always there when Simmons found himself in front of one.  
There was a kind of restraint mirrors provided. They didn’t talk back, or egg you on, “punch me, punch me. It’ll make you feel miserable and destroy your hand for a month!” They just sat there, expectant.  
Gene didn’t sit, didn’t wait for Simmons to reason with himself. He was oblivious to Simmons’ annoyance, seemingly blind to body language.

There was a moment where he snapped, they were alone, walking down tangled halls to the kitchen, where dinner was being served.

He was rambling, something about the percent of mercury in the fish they were eating. It could’ve been an interesting topic to play off of if Simmons gave a damn, or if Gene wasn’t so annoying. “Statistically speaking…” what statistic have you been reading about fish, Gene?  
“Simmons?”

“What.”

“Isn’t it crazy?”

“Gene,” he growled, turning slightly, shifting his hunched shoulders, trying to relax. “I don’t give a shit, I’ve got toxin processors in six parts of my digestive tract thanks to Sarge, and even if I didn’t I still don’t care.”

Gene pouted, falling silent. Their footsteps echoed throughout the halls, three muffled compared to the clunk of Simmons’ metal leg. Gene fidgeted in Simmons’ peripheral, but Simmons felt no remorse for shutting him up. He missed the quiet. It reminded him of lazing around the base with Grif. He felt his shoulders slacken, his fists unclench at his sides.  
“But even the Chorusan Cod--”

And then Gene’s stomach was at the receiving end of a cybernetic punch, slamming him into a wall and causing him to fall to his knees.   
“Shut the fuck up! Nobody cares about what you have to say!”

He stormed off before Gene stopped coughing into his hand, before Gene stood up.

When Gene arrived to dinner, he was sixteen minutes late, and absolutely silent. He stood at a slouch, his hand hovering near his stomach on multiple occasions. He barely ate.

Simmons was just glad he wasn’t talking.


End file.
